


An Téad

by Aondeug



Category: Chronicles of the Kencyrath - P. C. Hodgell
Genre: Breathplay, Death, Dreams, F/M, Hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: Dreams are fickle things. Awkward things. Things that turn memory into fantasy. Awkward fantasy that leads one to muse about honor.





	

There he stands on that same precarious stool. Ardeth surround him who heckle and push him. Demanding, demanding over and over, “Whose bastard are you?” “Whose!” they shout as Tori, so young, so hated, refuses to speak. Always, always refusing to answer. No, he kicks instead.

 

She watches off to the side again, so much older than he. Watching calmly, calmly at the dream her brother shares with her once more. This is a sight she has seen before. Her brother teetering on the brink, yet still lashing out, still defiant. Quite the different tune than that which he had sung in the border keep. Different than how he shrinks from their father. It is proof though. Proof of the strength he seems so insistent on refuting, denying. Always, always.

 

He is afraid, she is sure. Keenly, deeply fearful. Ready to cry or whimper, desiring a place to hide. He liked the stairs, curling up under them in a nook. Keeping out of the way, huddled away. He loved them dearly and would clutch and grab and pull at the fabric of his pants. Unmoving save for his hands. It was curious, always curious. It still is curious, very curious. His fear so sharp, while hers was so dull.

 

Here though in this dream Tori cannot run, cannot hide. They must await the call of Ran Harn, the opening of a door. Or, perhaps, for one or the other to wake before the intrusion. Those were a shame, intensely frustrating, the premature wakings. There is so much to learn in dreams. Curiosity needs to be sated, needs it.

 

What curiosity is there to sate now, however? Already she knows the end of this dream. Harn arrives, Tori is carried off, and Burr tends to his wounds. All while the Ardeth curse and complain. Where is the curiosity to be found here in that which she knows? She is not sure, but it is there. That scratch-scratch-scratching at the door that demands attention. She is curious, deeply so, but of what?

 

Perhaps curiosity itself at this point?

 

Her brother is struck and her attention is pulled from her musings. Right quick, an immediate focus. There is no cry of pain from him. Perhaps a quiet grunt at best, but none of the screams and shouts she knows so well. Almost screeching, falling to his knees as he sobs and begs. Begs for Father to stop, though he knows it only serves to anger him all the more. She remembers these sounds so clearly. Familiar and arresting. Enough so that her focus has drifted away once more. Now to memories of Tori huddled on the floor, hands raised above his head; it is all he can do to protect himself from the madman trapped behind the bolted door.

 

A shout rings out louder than before. More demanding about his parentage. She is drawn away and back again and she watches again. Keen catlike focus on the scene. Again, there is no answer from Tori. Tori who kicks out once more, but this time he stumbles. Stumbles and falls unable to catch himself. His legs jerk out wildly in a panic, searching for support. He kicks away the stool, kicks away his sole hope. The rope goes taut, only a short gasp escaping him before it tightens around his throat. Tight, tight, tight around his neck silence-silence-silencing him.

 

His fear is almost palpable. Though she can’t see it, she knows that it must be there. Must be reaching a fever pitch. The Ardeth care not. They jeer and they joke, laughing at him. Stupid, stupid, stupid bastard. If only he’d spoken. If only he’d wised up. They’ll cut him down, they say. Maybe, they say. Where is the honor in that?

 

Where is the honor in her continuing to watch? Watching so closely, so intently. Seeing every kick of his little legs, every sway of his thin body. Observing, drawing in the twitches and tensings of his muscles under the clothes. He squirms and wriggles, straining his arms though they are bound behind him. The effort is fevered, tireless and he has no hope of breaking the bindings himself. Not like this. Nor does he have any hope of catching his legs on anything. The stool is gone and the Ardeth back and all she wonders is how his face looks under the sack. How does his face turn, how does it redden? Are there tears in his eyes? Has saliva begun to drip from his mouth as he uselessly tries to scream, knowing that he cannot manage it?

 

What, Brother, does your face look like as you die?

 

How does it look and where has this shortness of breath come from? Is it from Tori? From their seeming sharing of all things and yet nothing at the same time? She thinks not. It can’t be that. It’s not so distinct and there is no burn of rope against her neck. It is there though, nonetheless. A sort of breathlessness at the sight. A tightness too. Several in fact. The first in her chest. Is it fear? Grief? Surely it must, though it feels of neither. It brings to mind instead those nights back in Tentir. Back in Tentir as she looked on at the scars painted all over Tori’s naked form. Or perhaps it is the other tightness that brings that to mind? Lower, lower down, far more insistent. Almost an itch, a sort of need. Warm and fierce and it makes her shift her weight. A useless gesture, as it does nothing to quiet it.

 

“Tori,” she whispers out. Not a cry of distress, or a call for help. Not the beginning of a rage or a mocking. She says it only to say it. To feel the syllables of his name fall off her tongue, off her lips. A comforting pair of sounds, lightly falling in breathy wanting. Sounds that she wishes she had more reasons to say. Positive ones and not complaints about his shrugging her off or shrinking away. Even after the syllables have dropped, she can feel them almost, almost. A delightful pair of sounds that she can nearly taste as she continues to watch his suffering.

 

His fight is long, rough, seemingly refusing to die. This is that strength of his, his endless will to endure even in the hopeless. It’s admirable in its own way. The strength that not even she measures up to, just as she told Harn. That was truth then and truth now as she watches him dancing from the end of a rope. Twisting and turning with a sort of grace, an unwillingness to die, and ever a readiness to fight.

 

The warmth is in her face, or has it been there? She can’t quite tell at the moment as she swallows. She swallows but that is not enough, not satisfying enough. And so she purses her lips for a moment then chews on the lower one briefly. And ever on she watches as the tension builds. A tension that demands for the attention of her hand. He is kicking and squirming and she is sure she writhes in her sleep as well. Again the question is asked, where is the honor in this?

 

In knowing that it is a fantasy, perhaps? In realizing that the Ardeth are gone? It is only she and Tori now, him so much the older. An adult once more. She wonders if this ever truly was Tori, dreaming Tori, or if it still is. And if it is not what then? What does this say? Could this be held defensible to the Dark Judge or would he read this as a sign of her Darkling nature to be ruled upon? Likely not, as nothing has happened in truth. Perhaps it might provoke a taunt of how he waits for her to fall, to be caught in a misstep so heinous to be judged by him. And what if this was or still is Tori? What then? That is far more questionable given his pain, his fear.

 

All the more so as she notes that he now lacks clothes. A lack of them and an erection, lovely, precious thing that his cock was. Dearly covered in careful marks, songs for a god who is not their own hated God. A permanent sign of his torment and his resilience in equal amounts. It’s a fascinating thing, his dick, and especially now. So hard, so rigid and again she wonders if it’s truly Tori. A part of her says, yes. Definitely, certainly it is Tori as he dreams.

 

What are the philosophical implications of all this and its lawfulness? Does the hardon make it a legal act?

 

These questions continue as she looks away from his crotch. Looks away to see that his face is still covered. A fact which makes her frown. If this is Tori, as she so feels it is, he is deliberately being a brat. Difficult and hiding, fighting in his odd sort of way.

 

Frustrating, frustrating. Enough so that she lets out a low rumble of a growl. She growls and she gives into that still unfamiliar beast that is her libido. Does she love Tori? In that fashion? She is not sure even as she unbuttons her pants and slides a hand between the fabric and her skin. Still not sure as she feels the warm, wetness down there. Slick, ready, allowing a finger to glide easily against her clit. Against that small nub, hard, hard almost as much as her brother’s cock. The ponderings of law and honor are set aside at last.

 

She looks on at him. Carefully observing every last jolt and jump from him. Tracing the beautiful lacework of scars trailing all over his body. She looks and rubs on at herself, quickly, insistently. How much easier it is to see each flex of pain and fear as he fights. To see a light coat of sweat, glistening, from the effort of it all. All while he is so very, very silent. A stark contrast to herself as her breaths grow ragged, as they quicken. He writhes, arching his back and she lets out a row, predatory growl. He is hers for the moment, and he suffers for the moment, and her heart races at that knowledge. Races all the more as she pokes a finger into herself. She loves him, she does. She’ll never destroy him, she won’t. And it is for that reason that lets out a vocal whine as she rolls her hips into her hand. For that reason that she takes delight in seeing him cum, thick liquid spurting forth.

 

She calls out his name again, this time louder. A needing whine of a call, aggressive and fierce. Fierce and she shuts her eyes for a moment, as the tightness in her crotch grows. Again she ruts against her hand and again she opens her eyes to look at Tori. Tori whose kicks grow slower, weaker. Tori who seems exhausted, nearing his death throes and still so, so frightened and so, so pained. Surely. She watches him, muscles relaxing not by his own will, and she groans once more. A thick, husky moan as the tension spills over, in one short burst of euphoric warmth. Euphoria as she looks on her brother, his consciousness already gone or fading away. Let it be drifting, she hopes. Let him be aware, she hopes. As aware of her as she was of him as he came.

 

And it is with that and with an involuntary weakening of her knees that she falls. She falls, toppling over face first and as the floor nears she sits up. Up and awake in a tent. In a tent, resting from escorting a caravan. The potential last caravan. Her face is flushed and Tori is gone and there is work to be done. Soon, so soon. For now though she stands and dress. Now though she needs a walk.


End file.
